


The Corday

by IvyOnTheHolodeck



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Espionage, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Feminism, Feminist Themes, French Revolution References, Humor, Identity Porn, Les Misérables References, M/M, Multi, Museums, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Singing, Slow Burn, Sword-fighting with Spoons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 20:45:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 20,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7816630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyOnTheHolodeck/pseuds/IvyOnTheHolodeck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rotting foot on the fifth step makes her pause.</p><p>She might just be making excuses to delay actually going upstairs, but still she bends to inspect the abandoned appendage. The foot has been hacked off at the ankle, and the bone gleams a sickly yellow against the exposed flesh. It's beginning to attract flies.</p><p>Molly sighs and straightens, clutching her folder to her chest. Sherlock really shouldn't leave his experiments lying around - Mrs. Hudson deals with enough as it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 21 January 2015

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a one-off and is now 70k+. I'm not entirely sure what happened. 
> 
> In TEH, Sherlock notes that Mary has a "secret tattoo." This kind of spirals from that. The primary relationships are Molly/Irene and Molly/Sherlock. 
> 
> I'm going to warn you now - this gets dark in places. There's fighting, murder, suicide, lying, betrayal, hints of dub-con, and other grim topics. Also, Molly starts out very very intolerant of Irene's line of work. (I promise that changes, but again, 70k.) That being said, there's nothing so graphic that you can't show your grandmother. Trust me - my grandma is one of my betas. ;)

The rotting foot on the fifth step makes her pause.  
  
She might just be making excuses to delay actually going upstairs, but still she bends down to inspect the abandoned appendage. The foot has been hacked off at the ankle, and the bone gleams a sickly yellow against the exposed flesh. It's beginning to attract flies.  
  
Molly sighs and straightens, clutching her folder to her chest. Sherlock really shouldn't leave his experiments lying around - Mrs. Hudson deals with enough as it is. Biting her lip, Molly ascends the last few stairs, hesitating at the top when she notices a feminine voice wafting around the door. After a moment, though, she recognizes the voice as Mary's and gathers the courage to walk into Sherlock Holmes' flat.  
  
Mary, enormously pregnant, sings to herself softly as she polishes the barrel of a handgun. Her tune is melancholy, almost apologetic, and the lyrics are clearly in a different language. Molly is loath to interrupt her reverie, but without lifting her eyes, Mary finishes her stanza and says, "Good morning, Molly."  
  
Molly steps farther into the room. "Morning. Is Sherlock...?"  
  
Mary rolls her eyes. "The boys are out. Something about a redheaded baseball team scam."  
  
Molly relaxes imperceptibly. "Okay, I guess I'll come back later then-"  
  
"No, no, sit down!" Mary shoots her one of those adorable grins that John loves so much. "I could use the company."  
  
"Um, thanks." Molly sinks awkwardly into his chair. Flustered, she blurts out the first question to come to mind: "Was that French?"  
  
Mary's smile abruptly becomes forced. "Yes. It's an old lullaby that my family... Look, Molly, do you mind not mentioning that to anyone?"  
  
Oh, yes. That's right. Mary is a former assassin hiding from her victims' kin. Sherlock had, just a month ago, shot a man to protect her identity. Molly nods rapidly. "Oh! Yes, sure. Sorry-"  
  
"It's fine," Mary cuts her off. They sit in an awkward silence for a moment. Molly wishes she hadn't come. Finally, in an overly-light tone, Mary asks, "So! Why did you want to see Sherlock? Just a social visit?"  
  
"Oh, no," Molly says emphatically. They share a smile - sure, like Sherlock has friends drop by. "No, actually, I was wondering if Sherlock could tell me what these markings meant." She pulls a handful of pictures out of the folder she carries. "See?"  
  
Mary pages through the glossy close-ups of unnaturally stiff, pale hands. Her gaze fastens on the salient similarity among the three photos.  
  
"These are from bodies at the morgue," Molly says. "I- It's just a bit odd that three corpses would turn up with the same tattoo, of a lion's paw of all things, inside the same week, especially when hand tattoos are supposed to be really painful-"  
  
"It's not a lion's paw," Mary interrupts her. Molly looks up in surprise and then alarm - Mary's hands are trembling. "Molly, you must promise me you will never tell Sherlock or John about these images. No matter what."  
  
"What? Why?"  
  
"Please." Somehow, Molly knows this isn’t an offer she can refuse. Mary’s expression is familiar; Molly has seen it before, frozen in rigor mortis on the faces of the deceased.  
  
"Um, fine, I won't tell them. But why?"  
  
The tension goes out of Mary's shoulders, and she slumps forward in her chair, seeming to age fifteen years. "That paw...is the clawed foot of a bathtub. It is the symbol of the Corday, an organization of assassins who follow the example of Charlotte Corday - you know, the woman who stabbed Marat in his bathtub during the French Revolution.” Mary rubs her eyes. “Marat was a newspaper publisher responsible for sending hundreds of purported 'enemies of the revolution' to the guillotine."  
  
A chill runs down Molly's spine. "Wasn't Charlotte Corday executed?"  
  
Mary smiles tiredly. "I never did like the name. Not only was Charlotte executed, but Marat became a martyr in the eyes of the revolutionaries."  
  
Molly shakes her head, confused. "How do you know all this?"  
  
"Because," Mary says, extending her left hand for Molly to see, "I used to be a member." In the web between her first finger and thumb is a clawed foot. "And these deaths - the Corday are the best of the best. This many wouldn't die in the same week unless they were being targeted." She sighs, shoulders sagging. "I should have known they wouldn't leave us alone."

"What do you mean?"

"You see how the tip of one of this woman's fingers in missing?" Mary taps one of the photographs. "I was there when she lost it. This was Yanina. She left the Corday a few months before I did, and now she's dead. The Corday leadership must have decided former members have too much information to be left alive." She rubs her eyes. "Frankly, I've been almost expecting this. The Corday don't like loose ends."

"Why now, though?"

Mary shrugs. "Who knows how those people think? They're the poster children for antisocial personality disorder." She gives Molly a half-smile. "Trust me, there's a reason I get along with Sherlock."

Well, that's one way to do it. Molly wishes her dinner-and-Glee dates with Jim Moriarty had been nearly as useful. "So what do we do?"

"Not tell John or Sherlock, because you know they'll try to protect me. They can't, not this time. Not if it brings them and my child into the line of fire. Molly," and here Mary looks up, "promise me you'll take care of them. Promise me you'll take care of my daughter. I won't be able to." Her chin raises and her expression hardens. "I'm going to die."


	2. 21 January 2015

Molly stares at Mary in shock. Mary, die? Mary can't die. It would destroy John; his depression would come back in full force, even worse than when Sherlock had faked his suicide. Molly likes John fine, but much more terrifying than what Mary's loss would do to John is what John's pain would do to Sherlock. Mary is still talking, telling her that she needs to keep her head down and not tell anyone about the tattoos, but Molly is only half-listening. When Mary finally pauses for breath, she jumps in. "Mary, is there any way you could convince these people not to kill you?"

Mary smiles wryly. "The Corday are remarkably sure of themselves. They hardly ever change their minds. I suppose that was part of their attraction - they gave orders with the absolute conviction that what they were doing was right."

Molly wracks her brain for options other than persuasion. She stands up and starts pacing the room, wringing her hands. "How many people belong to the group?"

Mary shrugs. "Too many. There's got to be at least two hundred assassins in England. Maybe twenty in London. But don't get your hopes up - I can't hide from them all or turn them in to the Yard. I’d be silenced within days. I'll bet the only reason that I'm still alive is that the Corday won't kill me while I'm still carrying a child, as long as I keep quiet.” She laughs shortly. “They like to think of themselves as merciful."

"Maybe it's not just that." Molly pauses mid-stride, her mind working furiously. It's times like these she wishes she had the intellect of a Holmes. "Maybe you're a low priority, since you've been hiding the truth from us all this time, or maybe Mycroft has this building under surveillance, or something. My point is, we have an opportunity here, if you're probably not going to be attacked immediately." Something suddenly occurs to Molly. "How come Sherlock never noticed your tattoo?"

Mary snorts. "Oh, he did. He asked me about it a few days before the wedding. I told him that it was the foot of a bathtub, that when I was a child at the orphanage, I fell down and broke my arm, but the orphanage director was too busy to look at my injury, so he told me to ‘take a bath and I'd feel better’. A few days later, a young doctor noticed that I was holding my arm funny, and he was so mad about the director’s poor attention that he wrote to the board of trustees. After that, our care improved, and I knew I wanted to marry a doctor when I grew up." Mary rolls her eyes. "Of course, by that point, he'd stopped listening. You know he can't stand sob stories."

"Right." Molly shakes her friend's talent at lying out of her head. "So these people can't be reasoned with, they can't be defeated because they're everywhere, and Sherlock doesn't know anything. I guess it's up to us."

"What is? Molly, there's no way out of this." Mary sounds remarkably calm for a woman discussing her own demise. She rubs a hand across her belly protectively. “The important thing is keeping my daughter safe.”

"There has to be a way to protect you both," Molly insists. "Don't you want your girl to have a mum?” Mary hesitates, which Molly interprets as an affirmative. “How do the Corday usually kill? Poison? Guns? Strangulation?"

"Each member has their own signature touch. I was - I _am_ \- an expert at using handguns. The head of the syndicate is rumored to have a passion for garroting." Mary traces the pattern on the armchair.

"Wait. There's a head of the Corday? Couldn't you just go to him?" Molly knows she’s clutching at straws, and she doesn't care.

Mary considers this, then shakes her head. "Garrett has a flare for the dramatic. He only accepts a letter if it comes attached to a dead body."

"Well then," Molly says, her heart pounding, "I think it's time I abused my position at the morgue."


	3. 21 January 2015

"Sometimes I wish Garrett insisted all letters come with flowers or chocolates," Mary complains. The two women are lugging a deadweight wrapped in cloth down a shadowy alley, three hours after they originally spoke. "Why bodies? Honestly? Are they supposed to be our credentials or something?"  
  
"This Garrett person," Molly interrupts, "are you sure he can help you? Or that he will?"  
  
"Can, definitely. Will?" Mary laughs breathlessly. "Garrett's word is law among the Corday, but we all know he's certifiably insane. Hence the bodies. I mean, no one besides Felix has ever actually seen his face-" She suddenly stops and looks around. "Here." She indicates a red dumpster pushed up against the bricks. "Put him here." Using her elbow, Mary throws back the dumpster lid. Together they lever the stiff cadaver, the remains of an unclaimed homeless old man, into the bin. Molly watches impassively as Mary pins a note to the bundle: _What would it take to save a farm girl's life, when her silence is already guaranteed?_  As Mary explained earlier, "farm girl" is a joking nod to her actual initials, AGRA. Once Mary has positioned the corpse to her satisfaction, the pair head back up the alley.

Just past the brightly lit Lamb & Flag, Mary pulls Molly through an unmarked black door. On the other side is a comfortable pub, a fire crackling in the hearth. Mary leads the way to a table tucked into a corner near the fireplace, sitting with her back to the wainscoted wall.

A blonde woman with a waitress's notepad walks over, and Mary orders an apple cider, encouraging Molly to do likewise. When the waitress brings them their drinks, Mary accepts hers eagerly. "Oh, thanks, these are to die for."  
  
Molly tries hers, a bit timidly. The cider is good, but not half as good as Mary is making it out to be. Sipping the spiced liquid, she ventures, "Is that a code phrase?"  
  
Mary rolls her eyes. "Garrett has a love of bad puns." They sit in silence for a few minutes, each nursing her drink. Finally, Mary sighs, her face as pale as her knuckles. "Molly, you need to know that if the Corday are getting rid of their operatives, you might be a target too. I found a surveillance device under my chair after you left this afternoon. The syndicate probably heard our entire conversation."  
  
"Me?" Molly whispers, fingers tightening around her mug. "What did I do? I don't know anything about them!"  
  
Mary grimaces. "You know the Corday exist, you know their leader is a garroter named Garrett, and you know how to contact him. These people value their privacy." Molly closes her eyes. What has she gotten herself into?  
  
"Oh, please. Give us some credit. We're not bloody Cultists," objects a voice above them. Mary stiffens. "We'd never attack an innocent." Molly looks up to see a sandy-haired young man drop into a seat at their table and fold his hands, a faintly amused smile curling his lips. He nods at Molly. "Especially not one who can procure a cadaver on short notice. What can I do for you, ladies?"  
  
"What's the price, Felix?" Mary demands quietly. "The price for her freedom?"  
  
"And _her_ life," Molly jumps in.  
  
Felix raises an eyebrow. “Intriguing. The farm girl finds an assistant in the morgue mistress. You know, Miss Morgue, you were on our naughty list a few years ago, back when you were dating a certain bloke."  
  
Mary glances at Molly in confusion. Molly blushes. "Jim, from the office. I broke up with him when Sherlock told me he was gay. Then he turned out to be Moriarty." Mary chokes on her cider.  
  
"As for the price of your life," Felix tells Mary, spreading his hands, "it's free. On the house." He shrugs. "This is Happy Hour, after all."  
  
The two women look at each other in confusion; they had not expected their task to be so easy. Then Felix leans back, hooking an elbow over the back of his chair. "You will have to pay for Madame Mortuary's freedom, though. And since Garrett is generous, you'll be able to buy the life of a certain farm boy at the same time."  
  
"Farm _boy_? What do you-"  
  
"Molly, hush." Mary's lips are pressed into a thin line. "Felix, what do we have to do?"


	4. 21 January 2015

Felix smirks slowly, his green-grey eyes scrutinizing the angles of Mary's face, assessing her sincerity. "Ms. Watson, you have the wrong idea. The Corday do not kill their own operatives. You're safe from us."   
  
"Really?" Molly blurts out, thrilled.   
  
She glances at Mary, thinking she will share in her relief, but Mary just gives her a quick, wan smile before turning back to Felix. "If you aren't killing off the agents, then who is?"

After a moment, Molly realizes why Mary seems even more frightened at the thought of an unknown enemy being the killer - the Corday, at least, probably wouldn't harm her husband or unborn child.   
  
Felix exhales. "A tubber, believe it or not. For reference, Miss Mort," he says without ever taking his eyes off Mary, "a tubber is someone we intend to assassinate, named after Marat and his bathtub." Molly nods, appreciating the aside.   
  
Mary, however, gasps. "A tubber survived and killed three assassins? Has that ever happened before? Who is this person, Mycroft Holmes?"  
  
Felix snorts. "No, we're not trying to douse your family members, although I sincerely doubt that either your husband or his friend would object too strenuously." Molly attempts to cover a bubble of laughter, with minor success. Felix tilts his head at her. "Miss Mort, you clearly agree, but I do not think you understand the full meaning of my news. No member of the Corday has ever failed to eliminate their target. Certainly, we've had a few sacrifice themselves in the process, but tubbers never walk free."  
  
"And this one survived three different attempts," Mary marvels. "Who is he?"  
  
Felix's eyebrow quirks upward. "Not a he. A she. I'd think you two would know better than most how deadly a lady can be."  
  
Mary leans forward. "If you don't want a demonstration, Felix, I recommend you tell me who's hunting us."  
  
Molly holds her breath during the brief staring contest that ensues, but after about ten seconds, Felix appears to decide to trust them. "We don't know her name." Mary opens her mouth, but Felix holds up a hand. "We do know that ten days ago Garrett started to get anonymous messages, cadavers and all, demanding money in return for silence. Whoever she is, she knows everything about our operation and members - she was very explicit. Garrett three times sent Corday members after her-"

"Corday members?" Molly frowns. "Mary, didn't you say that what's-her-name - Yanina - that Yanina left the Corday before you did?"

Felix shakes his head. "People don't just leave the Corday, Miss Hooper." Molly twitches a little at the sound of her real name. "Yanina wanted to rejoin before a year was up. Apparently, civilian life lacks pizzazz." 

"Not every civilian life," Mary murmurs, twisting her wedding ring.

"You're a bit of a special case, Ms. Watson. I hope you liked my wedding present, by the way."

Mary smiles humorlessly. "John still thinks they're ordinary steak knives."

"I figured you'd appreciate something practical."

"Felix, I don't intend on spending my marriage throwing knives at people."

"Don't be modest, you've always been better with blades than you let on. Remember that plumber in Aberdeen?"

"That's not the point!- Pun unintended."

The man grins. "I see your wit is as _sharp_ as ever."

"Felix-"

"Um," Molly cuts in. "The murders?"

"Ah, yes." Felix sobers. "The murders."

"Yes, thank you, Molly." Mary runs a hand over her belly as if reminding herself that she's not here to rekindle old camaraderie. "Felix?"

He grimaces. "I don't know. Whoever this woman is, she's killed all three of the operatives we've sent after her. Three, Mary. In less than a fortnight."  
  
Sensing an insight into the woman's character, Molly adds, "But she killed them in self-defense." The other two look at her strangely. Molly hunches inward a little but plows on. "I examined their bodies. The businesswoman had blood under her fingernails like she'd clawed someone, the construction worker smelled of gunpowder, but he'd been stabbed, not shot, and the restaurant owner was pretty scratched up by someone's nails. That probably means she didn't kill until they actually tried to hurt her." Mary and Felix are staring. Molly shrinks even more. "Maybe she tried to reason with them?"   
  
There's a pause, and then Felix grins. "Been studying with Sherlock Holmes, have you, Miss Mort?"

"It's a good point," Mary agrees. "That means our tubber probably isn't a seasoned killer, which in turn means she probably didn't torture this information out of someone. It's not like she could have accessed the Corday's records. We - _you_ \- don't keep records." She and Felix exchange grim glances. "Someone must have squealed."  
  
"So what do you want us to do?" Molly asks the young man. She hopes desperately he isn't going to ask them to murder anyone. Mary might be able to do that kind of thing, but Molly knows she can't.   
  
Felix rolls his shoulders and sets his jaw. "I want you two to go and negotiate with this woman." Mary starts to object, but he speaks over her. "If Molly's right, she won't hurt you. She's demanded that we negotiate through non-Corday members from now on. Try to figure out who she is, what her weaknesses are. If you can, tell her we'll leave her alone if she'll bugger off."

"We will?" Mary asks, surprised.

"No, but it buys us more time." Molly doesn't think this is quite fair, but she stays quiet. Whoever the woman is, she's a murderer, so Molly shouldn't feel sorry for double-crossing her.

Mary purses her lips and places a protective hand over the bulge in her abdomen. "I'm going to have a child, Felix."

"I know. Normally I'd threaten to kill you or your child - or maybe recruit your child." Felix pauses, considering. "That could be interesting. The daughter of John Watson and the so-called Mary Morstan would be an amazing asset-"

"I'd kill you first."

"Yes, well." The waitress interrupts to refill their glasses. Felix waits until she leaves to continue. "As I said, that's what I'd do normally. In this case, I don't need to. She has your identity, Mary. If she exposes the Corday to the media, you'll be exposed with us."

"You'll die," Molly says softly. This is what Sherlock risked his life to prevent.

Mary sighs, resting the back of her head against the wallpaper. It's a remarkably vulnerable position. The firelight reflecting off her hair is eerily hellish, and Molly has the sinking suspicion they're making a deal with the devil. "Fine."

"Excellent." Felix snags Mary's cider and takes a long draught, sighing with pleasure. "God, these really are to die for." The spices are nicely balanced, it's true. Molly takes another sip. "Anyway, Mary, it's not like I'm asking you to kill anyone. Just talking to this woman is a fairly price to pay for both your freedoms and your brother's safety."

Molly sprays cider across the table.

Having clearly anticipated her reaction, Felix hides his snickering behind a cupped hand as Molly apologizes and tries to mop up the mess with a paper napkin. Once she's tossed the soggy napkins into a nearby bin, she rounds on Mary. "You didn't tell me you had a brother!"

Mary, unapologetic, just looks at her, letting her figure it out. Molly continues along her train of thought: "If you have a brother among the Corday, then your silence really is guaranteed since they could hurt him if you ever betrayed them. That's also why you were willing to come here tonight, even though you were convinced you were doomed and I might get roped into this whole mess - you were desperate to try to protect your brother. He's the farm _boy_ , right?" Mary nods wordlessly.  
  
"Well! Now that that's figured out," Felix announces, getting up, "I'll leave you two gentlewomen to it." He produces a small briefcase from behind his chair. "The files are in here. I'm sure you know the drill."  
  
"Commit them to memory, then burn them in the fireplace before we leave the pub," Mary recites. Felix smiles, and after nodding politely to each of the women, he sweeps out of the room. Four hours of study and one small battle about the relative value of revealing the existence of one's secret siblings to one's accomplices later, Molly and Mary follow.


	5. 22 January 2015

The following night finds Molly fidgeting in her seat, fiddling with the itchy lace at her collar. They've only been sitting in the pub for five minutes, and she's already sick of this velvet gown Felix insisted she wear. Mary looks just as uncomfortable in the black silk maternity dress that took her fifteen minutes of straining and cursing to zip up.

Mary mutters in Molly's ear, "The Corday's dressmaker is a bitter, vicious old woman who dresses us like this deliberately to make sure we're too uncomfortable to relax during a strike. Plus, she sews tracking devices into the seams." Molly just rolls her eyes. The past two days have been so surreal that nothing surprises her now.

As the kitchen prepares their food (a salad and pear cider for Molly, a Cornish pasty, chocolate ice cream, and apple juice for Mary), the two women by mutual consent talk of other things, like how incredible it is that nobody before Sherlock wondered why an entire baseball league was composed solely of gingers. Molly regales her pregnant friend with stories from the morgue, like when her maiden aunt fainted after encountering Sherlock's riding crop experiments, and how Greg once accidentally drank a Coke that Sherlock had been rotting teeth in. In turn, Mary tells the story of Sherlock's reappearance and how he had interrupted John's proposal, and how John obsessively labels all his belongings, including his floss and tissue boxes, after a case of mistaken identity with a Chinese mafia group. For twenty minutes, they actually manage to pretend that all is right in the world.

Once the food comes, Mary begins slathering her beef pasty with ice cream. Slowly, savoringly, she lifts the first bite from the plate to her mouth; her teeth begin to grind as a beatific smile graces her face. She opens her eyes to find Molly staring at her. Mary grins and shrugs: "Pregnancy." They eat in silence for a few minutes. Molly is mopping up the last of her vinaigrette with a dinner roll when Mary's eyes narrow at something behind her.

"May I join you two ladies? You look simply ravishing tonight."

Molly twists around to find a woman standing above their table, her extremely low-cut sheath dress and diamond earrings simple but expensive. She's pretty in a cold way, but much too fond of eyeliner and lipstick. Her raven hair is tucked up in dark wings on either side of her head.

Mary regards her skeptically before returning her attention to her meal, gesturing with her fork for the woman to take a seat. Not seeming to notice this insult, the woman slides into the third chair at the table. She smiles, and Molly is reminded of the London Zoo's crocodile. "Oh, this is much friendlier." She picks up and slides her fingers around the rim of Mary's empty glass. "Killing is so uncivilized. Not, of course, that I'm much one for civility..." Her eyes rake over Molly's figure in the dress that suddenly feels excessively revealing. Molly shifts uncomfortably.

"Then I'd recommend you stay well away from the Corday," Mary points out with her mouth full. She swallows calmly, and then begins to saw off another bit of pasty. "We are going to keep shooting at you, you know."

The woman beams at her, seeming delighted by this reaction. "Ah, but you won't, will you. I'm too much of a threat, and exposure is...rather my specialty." Her eyes flicker suggestively back to Molly, who glances away.

Mary rolls her eyes. "Maybe. I've been authorized to tell you that if you leave us alone, we'll leave you alone." She plucks a corner of crust off her dish, pops it into her mouth, and swallows. "Personally, I'm more interested in learning how you got the information. A loose-tongued assassin is a ticking bomb."

The woman shrugs languidly. "I met a young, promising secret agent, doing seemingly freelance work. I gave him what he liked."

This line is the final clue. Something about their mysterious blackmailer had struck Molly as familiar; now, her mind flashes back to a particularly scathing blog post by Doctor John H. Watson. The pieces fall into place. Shoving back her chair, Molly leaps to her feet and hisses, " _Slut!_ "

The woman purses her lips. "I've been called that before, yes. I take it we've-"

Molly slaps the woman hard across the face.

Heart pounding, palm stinging, she grabs Mary's hand and drags her out of the restaurant, leaving the extortionist with a hand raised to her reddening cheek. Her friend offers no resistance until they arrive at the bottom of the pub's entryway's steps, at which point she digs in her heels. "What was _that_?" Mary demands, clearly astonished at Molly's potentially disastrous behavior.

Molly is shaking with a mix of jealousy, shock, rage, shame, and fear. "That woman," she informs Mary with an intensity equal to Mary's own, "is a heartless, dirty, manipulative, disgusting worm who used Sherlock and then tossed him aside. Her name is Irene Adler."


	6. 22 January 2015

Her ponytail dripping with sweat, Molly jogs through the park, damp exercise clothes clinging to her figure. Her shirt starts riding up her side again, and she tugs it down impatiently. Running isn't helping her relax nearly as much as it usually does. 

The last twilight filters through the dappled leaves of trees above, providing just enough light to keep her on the trail. The blue-black shadows usually turn into ragged claws of twisted corpses, but tonight Molly's brain is too preoccupied to be morbid. She keeps hearing her own question from two years ago, echoing thinly through the morgue: "Who is she? How did Sherlock recognize her from...not her face?"

Sherlock had thought Irene Adler was dead, and it broke him, and then she returned and used him again. Molly never told anyone that she'd dropped by Baker Street to see Sherlock the day Adler reappeared; she'd been almost at the top of the stairs when she'd noticed the Woman's sultry voice coming from 221B's parlor.

Molly had paused, not wanting to interrupt Sherlock with a client, only to realize this unknown woman was flirting with Sherlock, and Sherlock was flirting _back_. Molly had exited the flat as fast as she could. That encounter was the final blow to her confidence; as she pulled her jacket closer around her waist, shivering in the winter's darkness, she'd finally given up hope of Sherlock ever developing real feelings for her. Now, seeing that whore lounging in the pub, threatening to hurt the family of the man she loves yet again, the old scar has been ripped open anew.

Something taps her shoulder, and Molly jerks, stumbling into a rut in the dirt. She throws out an arm to stop her fall, gravel digging into her palm, and closes her eyes, taking shuddering breaths. It's not a zombie. It is _not_ a _zombie_.

"Here, let me."

Someone offers her a hand up, which she takes without thinking. "Thanks." Then she focuses on the person in front of her. 

Molly snatches her fingers away. Adler smiles, not at all put out. Glaring, Molly tries to brush past her and keep running, ignoring the cramping of her gastrocnemius, but Adler falls into step beside her.

"You don't have to come with me," Molly tells her, looking straight ahead.

"Oh, it's no bother. I can keep up this pace for hours."

Molly huffs. "Must be nice to be so athletic."

"I've been told I have incredible stamina." There's really nothing Molly can say to that. They go another half kilometer before Adler breaks the silence. "What I don't understand, little fox, is why you're helping these killers." 

"Oh really." It's not a question.

"You're not one of the Corday - no tattoo - and you're not strong enough in the arms to be a plainclothes spy. Judging by the smell-" Adler sniffs delicately. "You've been around dead bodies frequently. Not by consorting with murderers, mind you, going by your sweet face."

"What's it to you?" Molly wonders idly whether anyone will hear her if she screams.

"You slapped me," points out Adler, "even though you were negotiating with me. I heard you and your friend talking outside the pub - well, actually, I followed you home, listened to you slam your kettle around the kitchen, and then trailed you here. But even though you know how dangerous I am, you still hit me." She hums. "Usually I'm the one to do that."

"Thank you ever so for that image."

"Anyway, you're either rather idiotic or quite brave, and I think you're the bright type. I'm intrigued."

Misdirection time. Molly laughs breathlessly and bitterly. "I can't be that smart. I left my husband alone with you, didn't I?" She hopes, given the number of people Adler has probably slept with, she can play the betrayed wife and keep Adler away from Sherlock.

But Adler just chuckles. "No, no, no, no, no. Your friend might have quite the poker face, but you're not a good liar."

"What do you want, Adler?" Molly demands through gritted teeth.

"The same as everyone else." Her jogging partner spreads her hands, not breaking her easy stride. Headlights flash past along the street paralleling their horse trail, momentarily changing the Woman into a unrepentant silhouette. "Love. Money. Excitement. From the Corday, three million pounds and a personal bodyguard on request."

Molly wrinkles her brow, feeling perspiration pooling in the creases in her face. "You'd actually trust a bodyguard from the Corday, when they want you dead? And what makes you think they have anywhere near that kind of money?"

"The Corday have seized tens of millions from the fat cats they've killed," Adler replies, unperturbed. "They don’t know whom I’ve told or what information I’ve stored to be revealed after my death, so I can't be touched. The Corday need me alive to protect their privacy."

Abruptly, she falls. Molly staggers to a halt and glances back, wondering if Adler tripped over a protruding root. A tiny dart sticks out of the back of the woman's neck, which Molly stares blankly at for a moment before processing that it's a tranquilizer.

Something jabs her in the arm. The world swims, and her knees buckle. Everything goes black.


	7. 23 January 2015

The pounding in her head comes first, the deep booming of a hundred thousand men marching off to war, then a harsh light, blinding and exposing. Molly groans and rolls her head to the side. Her hair is limp and fallen in her face, her clothes damp and chilly. 

She's in what appears to be a bare storage room, the floor carpeted with beige fabric and the door set flush into the drywall, hinges nowhere to be seen. Against the opposite wall slumps Ms. Adler, much less intimidating now that she's unconscious. Molly tries to push her hair out of her mouth, only to discover that her hands are chained behind her back. 

Adler groans as her mascara-laden lashes begin to flutter. Too tired to be righteously angry, Molly just watches as the dominatrix opens her piercing blue eyes, which flick around the space before meeting Molly's gaze. "Call me Irene, dear," she says, as casually as if they were chatting over tea.

"Excuse me?" Molly rasps, discovering how dry her throat is.

"Irene. We've been kidnapped and locked up together. Surely that signifies a level of intimacy requiring first names be used. What's yours?"

Her gut rebels against cooperating with this manipulative whore, but their mutual abduction probably makes Irene her ally, disturbing as that thought may be. "Molly. Molly Hooper."

"Oh, you're Sherlock's pet." Adler clicks her tongue. "Getting mixed up with assassins, the naughty boy. Someone ought to _discipline_ him."

"I'm not his pet."

"Whatever you say, little fox." Of course Irene Adler can make a shrug look sensual.

Molly scowls. "Why do you call me that?"

Adler grins. "I thought you were a mouse at first, since you didn't speak up at the pub, but then suddenly you hissing and spitting in my face like the best of them. God only knows I'm open to a bit of punishment." She winks, and scoots over toward Molly, who instinctively backs up. Adler sighs. "Darling, passions of the blood can come later. Right now I have lock picks woven into my hair, and my hands are tied. Would you please be a love and give me a hand?"

Fine. She'll cooperate until they get out of here. With a great deal of bending and stretching, Molly manages to extract the lock picks. Adler grabs them in her teeth and goes to work on Molly's handcuffs.

What feels like hours later but is probably only minutes, the door rattles. Adler doesn't have time to get back to her side of the cell. Wincing internally, Molly throws her head onto Irene's shoulder and sobs. Getting the hint, Adler drops the picks where Molly can cover them with her leg.

The guard comes in just as it occurs to Molly that Adler's mysteriously loose hair may make the man suspicious. Clearly the thought occurs to the dominatrix too, because she pulls away from Molly dramatically and and declares, "I'll be safe, Molly, never fear! I won't abandon you!"

Molly grits her teeth and plays along. "Promise me you'll be all right!"

"For you, Molly, I will always be safe."

Molly leans farther into Adler's space to hide her grimace from the guard. "I can't lose you again! You're too important to me, my beautiful love!" Judging by Adler's wince, she may be overselling this a little, so she adds, "I don't care that you're a heartless, disgusting woman of low moral character. You're all I've got!"

Irene's nails dig into her leg where the guard can't see. "I'll always come back for you, Molly, you silly, judgmental mouse. What would your family say if I were to let you get hurt?"

"You, hurt someone? That's just silly. I-" Molly's double-edged reply is cut off as Adler, possibly guessing the direction she's headed, swoops in and kisses her.

Molly freezes. Her initial instinct is the jerk away, but on the other hand, Molly is no cringing virgin. Instead of giving Adler the victory by submitting, she kisses back with a vengeance, using her teeth and tongue as well as she can to gain control.

This continues for a good ten seconds before the guard loses his patience and grabs Adler. She shrieks, lashing out and managing to knock him off for long enough to whisper "Act hysterical" and caress Molly's face, tucking something behind her ear, before turning, offering her shackled wrists to the guard, and allowing herself to be dragged away as Molly screams not to be left behind.

After the door slams shut - loudly, suggesting that it's been reinforced with metal, which is unfortunate - Molly relaxes and takes a deep breath. Methodically, she finishes unlocking her hands and carefully pulls the tube from behind her ear. Inside is a tiny razor and a few small tranq darts.

Molly grins. Maybe Adler's methods have some value after all.


	8. 22-23 January 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand first perspective switch!
> 
> Britpicking is welcome and appreciated. :)

After Molly's revelation that the Corday's blackmailer is actually Irene Adler, The Woman, infamous dominatrix and intelligencer, Mary takes the Underground home. She tells John that she and Molly were having a girls' night out at a nice restaurant. 

The previous night, she had said they were attending a library event.

Completely trusting, John accepts her explanation and regales her with tales of the baseball scam, which he's starting to think might have been organized by Moriarty's successors. Casually, Mary manages to bring Adler into the conversation by comparing her to Moriarty. 

John grimaces. "She was brilliant, nearly equal to Sherlock. I think that's what he thought was so attractive about her, that he couldn't figure her out. Frankly, I'm glad she's dead."  Mary jumps slightly. John smiles at her. "I know I said she went into the witness protection program in America, but that's just what Mycroft decided to tell Sherlock. She had too much power over him." Well, then. Mary smiles blandly and fakes hiding a yawn. John grins and tells her to get to bed. 

They kiss good night - god, she loves that man - and Mary heads to the bathroom. From there she texts a coded message to Felix, telling him of the night's events. She doesn't soften her description of Molly's brashness one bit, hoping that reporting such impulsive behavior will deter Garrett from trying to recruit the young woman. After meditating, she goes to bed, hoping that Molly's anger will have cooled by morning. 

But the next morning, when Mary walks into the morgue, Molly isn't there. Her boss hasn't seen her, she's not at 221B, and when Mary tries phoning her, the call goes straight to voicemail. Felix acts casual when she calls him, but Mary picks up on his tense syntax, suggesting that he too (and through him the Corday) are concerned at the thought of an agent with too much information vanishing, especially since Molly hasn't been trained to resist torture. He assures her that the Corday are looking into the matter, and that her brother is safe.

"It's Adler, isn't it?" Mary presses her back against the wall of the toilet, digging her scapulas into the plastic. She has to get back to work soon, or someone will notice.

"No, it's not." Felix exhales through the speaker. "Whoever took Molly took Adler too."

"How do you know?"

"We have our ways, agent. It's not your place to question."

"Just in case you've forgotten," Mary hisses, "I don't work for you anymore. You can't give me orders."

"That's your choice, Mrs. Watson, but if you're out of the game, you're completely out. For the sake of your brother, husband, and child, I highly recommend you don't mention any of this to anyone, let alone think about getting involved."

"Bastard." Mary hangs up, wishing for a receiver to slam down. She inhales, pasting on a smile for her coworkers, and exits the loo, waving to Ava as they pass in the hall.

Eventually, the police will start looking for Molly, ineffective as ever, and will attract the attention of one of the Holmes brothers, by which point whoever abducted Molly will have tortured her into giving up  her useful information. Molly will no longer be worth the risk of keeping as a hostage and will turn up, either tormented out of her wits or as a corpse. Mary never should have let the sweet kid get involved in their underworld of espionage and death. Now, with her child being threatened, Mary can only wait and hope that Molly is cunning enough to get herself out of whatever mess she's in. 


	9. 1 June 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Molly, and cue time jump!

Four months later, the door screeches open, waking Molly from her restless sleep. The guard throws a limp Irene into the room. Molly winces, her guts clenching, at the purple handprint splashed across the woman's face.

"You know, this would be over in a few days if you would just cooperate," their captor points out, strolling in after the thugs. "You'd be happier, I'd be happier, and the slut would be happier." The surge of anger Molly feels is ironic, given she had called Irene just that mere months ago, but her face flushes nonetheless. "Such barbarism is below people like us."

Molly stares at their kidnapper balefully, wishing she had the guts (or the stupidity) to throw herself at the woman and throttle her. Their captor - the guards refer to her only as Mademoiselle - first showed up only two weeks ago, apparently to figure out why interrogating them was taking so long. The beatings have escalated dramatically since she arrived.

After a long moment of silence, Mademoiselle purses her too-red lips in annoyance and clicks on her high heels out of the room.

Once their guests have exited, Molly drags herself - she hasn't been able to walk since they beat the soles of her feet ten days ago - over to her unconscious cellmate. Irene's makeup has long since rubbed off (for the first week, her mascara and eyeshadow smears had made her look zombified) and her hair hangs loose around her shoulders in a greasy mat. Her dress was confiscated after their first escape attempt, which came to an abrupt end when Molly was waylaid down the hallway by a pair of guards. Their kidnappers had realized Irene would have hidden tools about her person; the entire escape had been permitted to trick Irene and Molly into betraying themselves.

Since then, Molly and Irene have been periodically separated for interrogation; Molly has been threatened and beaten as the guards demand information about the Holmes brothers, the Corday, Irene, Moriarty, the morgue, the Corday again, Mary, John, Sherlock's new friend Bill, the Baskerville Military Base, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Donovan, the Corday yet again - 

Molly talks and talks until her throat tightens from dryness and her voice is reduced to a rasp, and still they demand answers. As Irene recommends, Molly tells about one lie for every three truths, giving her captors plenty of verifiable (but not particularly useful) information and a few important wrong ideas.

Irene groans, her bloodshot eyes fluttering open. Molly silently offers her a hand, thanking her lucky stars that she doesn't have half as much useful information as the dominatrix does. Slowly, determinedly, Irene pulls herself up to slouch against the wall, and smiles a small, wicked smile. She leans close to Molly, pretending to caress her cheek - they've found it convenient to continue acting as though they're in a relationship these past few months - and whispers, "You'd think these people would realize they're not going to get anything out of me. I told them Mycroft has a deeply suppressed passion for Sergeant Donovan and that the Corday are secretly infiltrating film companies to send subliminal messages to civilians."

Molly files these whoppers away to tell the guards sometime in the next week. "I told them that Mary is the Queen's illegitimate daughter, the Corday have ten thousand operatives in England working to overthrow MI6, and that Baskerville focuses on creating glow-in-the-dark goats for nighttime farming."

Irene squeezes Molly's hand approvingly and falls asleep, still propped up against her. Molly pulls her knees up to her chest, absently stroking Irene's hair.

It's incredible, really, how quickly mutual enemies can make people friends. Boredom convinced her and Irene to start talking by day three; by day five, Irene was teaching her push-ups to strengthen her arms for future escape attempts. Exercise lessons had led to self-defense instruction, then to cryptography, then finally to actual civil conversations - by the end of the first fortnight, Molly's hatred for Irene had nearly petered out.

"Hatred isn't your style, little fox," Irene laughed when Molly admitted that. "You're too dangerously sweet."

Crossing her arms, Molly sighed. "I only wish I was dangerous."

Irene shook her head. "I lay people out with chains and a riding crop. You can do it with just those pretty brown eyes."

Sadly, Molly's "pretty brown eyes" haven't proved particularly useful - they're still hostages. Irene gripes that if she could just seduce a guard, they could escape, but Molly refuses to let Irene be sexually assaulted on her behalf. Instead, they wait for an opportunity. Their last three attempts were halted partway through, but for some reason, the guards won't escalate their brutality. Since their interrogations occurred only a few times per month, Molly and Irene figured they could afford to wait. Since Mademoiselle arrived, though, they've been questioned every few days, Irene especially. Molly marvels that despite her suffering, Irene still hasn't revealed any genuine information.

Actually, that's not entirely true.

Ironically, the guards haven't picked up on what Molly has: Irene is lonely. Every time she's thrown back into the cell, broken and bleeding, she somehow conjures the energy to compare lies with Molly; every time Molly is dragged away, Irene droops a little lower; every time Molly tries to suppress her physical pain by describing her friends, Irene listens quietly with just a trace of the look that Molly saw reflected in her car window, driving away from 221B that winter's night two years ago.

Sighing, grateful that Irene has stopped her incessant flirting, pained by the raw bottoms of her feet, Molly drops off into a sleep troubled with dreams of darkened eyes and cold white hands.


	10. 5 June 2015

"Let's try this again. What is Mycroft Holmes' greatest weakness?"

"His passionate love for Lucky Charms."

_Whap!_

"What information did the woman known as Mary Watson give you regarding how to contact the Corday?"

"You tango drunkenly at the top of the London Eye until someone comes to arrest you."

_Whap!_

"What has Sherlock Holmes told you about the chemical makeup of the substance used in Project H.O.U.N.D.?"

"Apparently it's composed of eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and-"

_Whap! Whap! WHAP!_

Molly clenches her teeth together, determined not to let them get another genuine piece of information out of her. To hell with misinformation, she is sick of playing the cooperative lamb.

"You're not helping yourself," Madame snaps. "I'm _trying_ to be reasonable here, but there's not much point in keeping you alive if you won't tell us what you know." Molly only smiles grimly at the stained concrete floor, knowing that the worst Madame's thugs will do is use their fists or leather straps. Irene has deduced that Madame wants to believe she runs a relatively clean operation.

"Why do you care?" Molly demands roughly. "Why would Project H.O.U.N.D. even matter to you?"

They ignore her. "I could make her talk," offers the slab-faced ginger guard who arrived with Madame and has apparently replaced the previous silent one. "Gimme ten minutes with the b-"

"I said _no_ ," Madame snaps, glaring. Molly squeezes her eyes shut as she guesses what the guard is suggesting. "We will keep our questioning humane. _Especially_ for this one. You know what the boss said."

The guard doesn't comment further. Somehow Molly doubts he's been convinced, although with her hands tied like they are, she can't turn around to check.

A click-click-click announces that Madame is walking away. "Throw her back in her cell. I've got a meeting with the Peruvian chapter."

A guard drags Molly back down the hall and tosses her onto the floor of their storage room, her hands shackled behind her back so that she can't avoid getting a cruel knock to the head. Irene, still playing the girlfriend, rushes over to minister to her wounds, but Molly snarls at her and pushes her away. The genuine hurt in Irene's eyes does not go unnoticed by the guard as he closes the door. Once he's gone, Molly still deliberately hesitates for the sake of the cameras that they're sure are hidden in the cell. After a moment, though, she makes her way to Irene's side and slumps down next to her. "I'm sorry about that," she breathes into Irene's ear, disguising the words as a caress. "We need to convince the guards that we're breaking up if we want to get out of here."

Irene shakes her head minutely and buries her face in Molly's hair. Not sounding a bit mollified, she says quietly, "How? I've been working on these people for months, and I've made no progress. I'm a professional information-gatherer, but there's no information to be _gathered_ , other than the fact that Madame is a narcissistic American trained in espionage and currently trying to convince herself that she's working for the greater good, that our guard is an opportunistic, sadistic part-time philosophy student from Cambridge who was once stabbed in a bar fight and whose girlfriends are both having affairs with biology majors, and that we're being held on the bank of the Thames."

Molly manages to keep silent her private amusement at how nettled Irene is that she hasn't yet found a way out. "You just said it. The guard is opportunistic, so he isn't loyal to Madame or her people. We just need to get to him."

Quickly, she outlines her plan: promise the guard large sums of money for taking a seemingly innocuous goodbye letter to Mary, claiming that Molly doesn't have long to live, while encoding a secret message in the ordering and choice of her words. Either Mary or Sherlock will no doubt crack the code. It will be easy enough to find a blonde philosophy student with a salient stab-wound scar on his stomach, and easier still to track him to work.

The trick will be to convince the guard to deliver the letter. The only solution Molly can come up with is to convince the guard that Molly and Irene are breaking up, and that the letter Molly is going to send will hurt Irene. The guard isn't very bright, despite being a Cambridge student; Molly hopes that with a little encouragement he will carry the letter out of cruelty. Irene agrees, and they discuss logistics for a few minutes. Irene comes up with most of the letter's contents and, well, it's brilliant. 

They finally settle on a plan. Still, Irene scowls. "This is going to be a long shot. We'll be more likely to succeed without outside help. The red-haired fool, for example-"

Molly clamps a hand over Irene's fingers, staring her straight in the eye. Irene raises an eyebrow. After a pause, Molly releases her grip. "No. I won't have you prostituting yourself for my sake."

"I'm a dominatrix, little fox."

"You're also my friend. We'll do it my way." Molly curls into a ball and tries to fall asleep so she won't have to try to read Irene's expression. If this is going to work, she'll need all the rest she can get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lord, it's been almost a month. Sorry! College application season... :/ More coming soon!


	11. 6 June 2015

"Dearest Mary," the guard slowly reads aloud, even though Molly had begged him to keep her missive private, "I keep dreaming of your easy smile and your long blonde hair. Do you remember the day we met at the lake at Cambridge? I so admired your friendly attitude, your sweet innocence, and your happy-go-lucky philosophy of life. Now that I am about to die, I can hardly stomach thinking I'll never see you again. My love for you is a scar across my heart; it runs as deep and as wide as the Thames. I guess it's just unlucky that I never said anything before. Love, Molly." He grins at Molly's plain discomfort and Irene's devastation. "Not so loyal to your girlfriend after all, eh girly?" he sneers at Molly. "Sure I'll deliver your letter, but don't think I'll be caught by the police or sommat handing it in myself." Molly lets her face fall a little farther, as if she'd been clutching that unlikely hope. The guard snickers and leaves the room with the paper and pen, both of which he'd granted her after she'd employed a couple of Irene's tricks.

Molly raises an eyebrow at Irene. Her friend nods - the guard doesn't suspect anything - and turns away, still playing the hurt ex. Molly breathes out slowly, confident in Irene's ability to read people. The endgame has begun.

~

Mary leans across the table, her eyes boring into Felix's. "Don't you see? I've found them! The key is in the last sentence - unlucky means thirteen; every thirteenth word is a clue!"

Felix reads off the thirteenth words musingly. "Blonde Cambridge philosophy stomach scar Thames Molly. You think she's telling you where to find her?"

"Exactly! Just let me go to Cambridge and figure out which students are blonde philosophy majors with stomach scars and a connection to the Thames. We can place an agent on each of them-"

"Whoa," Felix protests, holding up his hands, "I never said anything about giving you agents. This might be a trap."

"But we have to risk it!" Mary insists. "If Molly and Adler are being held somewhere together, we have to do everything in our power to get Adler back before she spills everything she knows about the Corday!"

Felix tilts his head to the side, considering. "And then we kill her."

Mary winces but knows he's right. Adler is too great a security risk. "That's your business. I just want Molly back. She's my friend, and Sherlock's concern over her disappearance is rubbing off on my husband."

The sandy-haired assassin snorts. "Ah yes, I heard about the scene at Number Ten. Is it true Mycroft had to have his brother forcibly removed?"

Molly makes a face. "You know, if I told him what I know, he could help us."

But Felix just shakes his head. "He can't know you're still in contact with us. You know how he and your husband would react. Actually, I'm not sure this is a job for you either, with your baby at home." He smiles fondly (an odd expression on his usually cold visage) and pulls up on his phone an image of Mary and her newborn, a picture that Mary is certain she didn't send him. She grimaces, knowing he's right and hating it. Felix, smirking, continues, "But don't worry, I'll put one of our best London operatives on the case."

Right on cue, a tall figure appears from behind the bar and sways over to join their table. Something in her gait reminds Mary of Adler. Then the Corday member removes her hood, and Mary gasps, astounded. "You!"

"Me." The woman leans across the table, a lioness lounging before the hunt. "I'll rescue them, honey. Don't worry. Just tell me everything you know." Still in shock, Mary begins listing everything that's happened since that first fateful day that Molly arrived with the pictures. By the time she finishes, she realizes that the woman's identity makes a lot of sense. As Mary stands to go, the female assassin calls after her, "You won't tell, will you? It could make things...awkward."

Mary smiles grimly. "You bring them back alive, both of them, and I keep your little secret. Felix, you can kill Adler later if you want, but first I want another chance to bargain with her."

Felix, guessing Mary's train of thought, asks, "Could we ever trust her?"

Mary shrugs. "If we're loyal to her, I'll bet she'll be loyal to us. Especially knowing we could kill her at any time." With that, she walks out of the room.

The woman in the hooded cloak turns to Felix. "Should I leave this Adler alive? I'd rather my association with the Corday not be disclosed by an emotionally compromised assassin."

Felix raises his eyebrows. "Have I ever had to give you permission to complete a strike? Do as you see fit." His companion smiles, her expression predatory, and slinks away.


	12. 10 June 2015

Three days after he delivers her letter, the blonde guard mockingly holds the door as Molly limps inside, her back smarting from another encounter with Madame's thugs' whips. Irene turns away coldly as Molly enters, leaving her to huddle against the unforgiving wall, flaking where they'd tried to cut through. The guard closes the door, but Molly and Irene remain where they sit, partly afraid to reveal to hidden cameras that they aren't actually mad at each other, partly because they have nothing to say. It all depends on Mary now.

Ten minutes later, there's a muffled thump and a groan outside the door. Molly and Irene glance up, barely daring to hope.

The door flies open, clanging against the exposed metal wall behind it, but to Molly's disappointment, the silhouette in the frame isn't Mary's. Instead, a tall, athletic woman with masses of honey-blonde hair and a black cat-burglar outfit stands tall and confident. The woman holds up her left hand for the prisoners to see - etched in the web between her thumb and first finger is a tiny, perfect lion's foot. She smiles, seeming perfectly at ease. "Come along, dears, we need to get you out of here."

Molly glances at Irene, who nods, confirming the woman is a member of the Corday. Together, they stand up, as stiff as if they were arthritic, while their rescuer frowns contemplatively. "You'll have to be faster than that if you want to get out of here alive." Molly glares at her, strengthening her resolve. She and Irene walk painfully to the door and peer down the hall.

"How long before they realize we've escaped?" Irene asks, her eyes intent on the Corday woman's face.

"About ten minutes, since I shut down their security system first," the assassin says, her eyes scrutinizing Irene's tight shoulders and bruised arms. "And you've been beaten worse than Ms. Hooper, haven't you." Before Molly's friend can protest, their rescuer swings Irene's slim frame over her shoulder. Irene's eyes flash at the indignity, but realizing that she'll only slow them down, she stays quiet. Molly suppresses a snort of laughter.

Corday Woman leads them through a maze of halls, passing dozens of empty offices in what appears to be an abandoned office building, and down three flights of stairs whose giant windows offer precious sunlight. On the flight before the bottom, their savior puts a finger to her lips and gently sets Irene down on the top step. Just beyond the staircase is a door guarded by two thugs with guns. Barely audible, the assassin whispers to Molly, "I can shoot them, but it'll make a racket. Any ideas?"

Irene overhears and grins, having apparently regained some of her usual vitality. "My turn." Guessing what Irene has planned, Molly covers her eyes. A minute later, she hears a sing-song, "Hello, boys," followed by an indistinct murmur and two thuds. Molly waits another minute before opening her eyes, just in time to see Irene pull her prison-issue dress back over her head. The two guards lie unconscious on the floor. Irene smirks at her. "So modest."

The assassin watches Irene with interest. "Was that karate? Well done."

Irene waves away the compliment. "Tae kwon do, actually. Let's go." The assassin tosses Irene over her shoulder, and the three women run on.

Five minutes later, they arrive at the ground-level exit, a room looking like a lobby. Something makes Molly pause. "This is too easy. Only three guards in the entire building? Surely Madame has better security."

"We really don't have time for this," Corday Woman reminds her, but Molly shakes her head.

"Molly's right," Irene says, craning her head over the assassin's shoulder. "Madame's no fool. There's no way she - this is a trap."

"Quite right," rings a voice from behind them. Scowling, Corday Woman sets Irene on her feet and cocks her handgun, spinning so the firearm points steadily between their captor's eyes.

Madame doesn't flinch, leaning on the receptionist's desk, a potted fern bobbing next to her hand. Her stilettos have been traded for black boots that match her black slacks and button-down, and her walnut hair is slicked past her ears. "It must have been satisfying, to figure out we had a breach in our security," she muses, staring at the newcomer. "The abandoned office building in a city where every square foot of land gets bought up. You must have been so proud to realize we were here, and even more so when you thought to cause a blackout. That _was_ clever, by the way. But the power should be returning right about-" She smiles as the lobby's lights flicker back on, highlighting her as a shadow against the white marble.

Corday Woman flushes. For a second she seems to literally glow with fury, but then Molly processes that the red light on her face is made up of sniper's sighting lights, dots that speckle her and Irene as well.

"In case you're wondering, yes, I'm giving my evil villain speech," Madame admits. "This is the part of the story where I'm supposed to tell you my secret plan, so you can come up with a way to thwart me, blah de blah. But Molly, Irene-" She spreads her hands, posing at pleading. "Haven't I treated you relatively well? I told you all along, you could leave once you told us what you know."

Molly blinks, astonished that Madame dares to play for gratitude, but Irene murmurs next to her, "She genuinely believes that."

"I'm not the bad guy, honestly," Madame says earnestly, crimson lips echoing the room's crimson light. "I'll explain everything, I promise. Just put down the gun."

"Not going to happen," Corday Woman tells her.

Madame laughs with genuine amusement. "That's what everyone says. The Emperor will convince you. He always does."

Molly squints. "The Emperor? Who's-"

_Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep-_

Corday Woman throws all three of them to the ground, knocking the wind out of Molly and cracking Irene's head on the tile. She covers Irene with her own body as shots shatter the glass above them, aiming at Madame. Madame dives out of the way.

Molly struggles to breathe. Gunfire clamors. Shards fall like raindrops, and red weaving lights cast above their heads for the shooter, while Madame crawls behind the desk. The ginger guard dives through the rain of bullets to join her and pulls something-

"Go!" Molly yells at Corday Woman, waving an arm at Irene and the door behind them. The assassin seems torn for a moment, but evidently comes to the same conclusion that Molly has - Molly has less information and therefore is less important to rescue - and scoops up an unconscious Irene. She inches out the door while Molly reaches for her dropped handgun.

Someone throws a smoke grenade into the room, so Molly can hardly see through the haze. She can make out the silhouettes of a trio of armchairs (this is a lobby after all) and crawls in their direction, managing to lodge a splinter of glass in her palm. Now her hand hurts like hell, but there's no time to focus on that because the gunfire is getting worse and closer and _wait aren't we in an office building and aren't office buildings equipped with_ -

The fire alarm starts shrieking, the sprinklers coming on, dampening the smoke, and Molly somehow wraps her fingers around the trigger. She pulls and pulls, gun jumping in her hand. She has to cover the others' retreat. She's secure behind a chair now, but bullets shred the upholstery as snipers realize where she is. Madame screams, ordering them to stand down, _not_ to kill Hooper, they know their orders.

There's a brief lull in the fire. Molly peers through the arm of her chair. From this angle, she has a clear shot at Madame's heart. 

She can't.

She must.

She _can't_.

Just a warning shot then. Jerk the pistol a degree to the left and -

The bullet rips through Madame's arm. She howls in pain and apparently comes to a decision because she changes her orders, screaming at her men to _kill Hooper dammit what good are they anyway?_  No choice now. Molly repositions the pistol, and her hand shakes, she's so tired, but _this_ time she'll do it. She pulls the trigger. The handgun coughs. The bullet spins, spins toward Madame's chest -

But the ginger guard throws himself in the way, and the bullet takes him in the forehead. He looks _surprised_ , of all things, the man who'd have been a rapist if Madame hadn't forbidden him looks _surprised_ , and he slumps to the ground and Madame lunges out of sight and apparently that's all the permission the snipers need because the barrage suddenly thunders around Molly again and dammit why does the gun have to run out of bullets now -

But now someone's shooting from outside again, giving Molly a chance to scuttle from her chair through the dust and smoke to the fractured glass window. Adrenaline must give her strength, because it's only a few seconds' work to smash a hole big enough to crawl through, and her hands, her arms are bleeding, and she wiggles out just as a bullet tears into her leg, and oh my god oh my god it hurts, but she's crawling, she's crawling away, and here's Corday Woman now, sweeping her up and dragging her to a cab idling on the street, Felix in the cabbie's seat.

They tear away through the streets of London, Corday Woman yelling that _they need to get to a hospital, her blood pressure is dropping too fast_ , there's so much blood, and Irene's face hangs over her, begging her to hang on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly haven't forgotten this story. If nothing else, it's hopefully a feminist's relief after TST.


	13. 11 June 2015

Mary paces outside the hospital room, looking up hopefully every time a doctor or nurse rushes out, going back to pacing when they completely ignore her. Adler sits in a chair by the door, looking tense and frightened. Part of Mary's brain puzzles over all of Adler's odd behavior, from contacting Mary to not trying to escape. While loath to trust the woman who killed three of her colleagues, Mary has to admit that it looks like Adler genuinely cares about Molly Hooper. 

Molly. 

Molly, the sweet girl from the morgue, the brave woman who stayed behind, firing at snipers even though she hadn't held a firearm in years, to cover the retreat of a friend and a woman she'd never met. Molly, who agreed to steal corpses and work with a secret team of assassins just to help a friend. Molly, the girl lying in the hospital room, dying of blood loss, weakened by prolonged abuse and malnutrition. 

Molly, Molly, Molly. 

Mary paces and paces. 

In the endless hours that follow, which take both an instant and an eternity, John and Sherlock both arrive, Sherlock with that same awful blank look that he had when he first encountered Mary in Magnussen's office. Mary's mind, eager to pay attention to irrelevant things, notices that he and Adler hardly spare one another a glance, both so intent on Molly's survival (although John seems plenty startled - and even more startled at Sherlock's indifference.)

Finally, an exhausted surgeon walks out of the ward, looking tired but satisfied. Mary, Irene, and Sherlock all read the news in his eyes; Mary starts crying in relief, Irene gives a long sigh and hides her head in her hands, and Sherlock straightens and adjusts his collar. Molly is going to make it. 


	14. 25 December 2015

The evening of the Christmas party, Irene dresses Molly, does her makeup, and curls her hair. Irene smiles at her in the mirror. "You look lovely now that you're not half-starved and tortured." Molly smacks at her, grinning, but Irene easily dances out of reach. "I'm serious!" she protests. "You've gained confidence since you shot that guard." Ah. Molly's smile stays on, but it tightens significantly. It's true that she's become more secure since that day with the photos, but she's torn between a nagging guilt over the guard's murder (no, not murder, it was self-defense, but still) and an ominous suspicion that she'll regret not having shot Madame while she had the chance. To no one's surprise, by the time MI5 arrived at the compound, Madame and her associates were long gone. Somehow Molly doubts they've left for good, especially since no one knows exactly what they were after - and why did Madame say the snipers were specifically under orders not to shoot Molly?

Deliberately changing the subject, she gestures to the tattoo on Irene's hand. "I'm still surprised you agreed to join them."

"It was Mary's idea," Irene admits. "The Corday were far more determined to eliminate me than I'd anticipated. Mary suggested that instead of killing me, they make use of my talent. Miracle of miracles, Felix actually decided to show mercy." Molly nods, pretending that it doesn't seriously bother her that her friend will still be prostituting herself. That's too much for the Corday to ask - but then again, if the other option was death...

Irene waves the curler expressively. "Now I get the protection of the Corday, and they get access to the information I collect. It's rather nice fighting for a good cause."

The you-shouldn't-need-to-whore-yourself-out argument can wait for another day. Instead, Molly smiles slyly. "And your choice had nothing to do with the fact that you're now dating the woman who saved us?" This time, _Irene_ smacks at _her_.

Two hours later, Molly enters the party room of 221B quietly, curious to see who's there before they all jump her.

Lestrade and Donovan chat with Anderson and his girlfriend over by the punch. Molly smiles at how close Lestrade and Donovan are standing. It's about time.

Mycroft stands awkwardly next to the bookshelf, trying to reread the _Complete Works of Shakespeare_ while Anthea texts on her phone. Molly watches in bemusement as Felix (Mary's guest) wanders over to the two and murmurs something. Slowly, Mycroft closes the book and gives Felix his complete attention as Felix begins pitching the Corday as a potential ally of the British government.

John and Mary, of course, are cooing over baby Camira. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

Molly chooses to go join the Watsons.

Ten minutes later, while Molly and Mary are chattering gaily, Irene enters the room. Surprised but pleased, Molly goes to meet her. "Irene! I'm so glad you came! Did Mary invite you?"

"Actually, my date is the one with the invitation," Irene laughs. She gestures behind her, and out of the shadows steps the Corday woman who rescued them from the compound.

"Hello, Molly," the assassin smiles, resplendent in a glittering black gown. "I don't think we've been properly introduced. My name is Harriet Watson, but my friends call me Harry."

Astonished, Molly shakes the woman's hand, as the pieces begin to fall into place. Of course John's sister would have an adrenaline addiction too! It makes perfect sense for her to be a member of the Corday. The alcoholism must just be a cover story to explain away her frequent disappearances.

Leaving Molly, the pair meander over to the other Watsons. Molly notes with amusement the shock on John's face and the resignation on Mary's.

"Quite an evening," Sherlock observes, coming up behind her with two glasses of champagne. Molly accepts one with a smile, no longer terrified out of her wits at his presence. "Your assassin friend is obviously trying to gain himself a place in the government."

"If you think your brother is surprised by the existence of the Corday now," Irene says, walking over, "just wait until he finds out Anthea is our leader."

Molly nearly chokes on her champagne. "Anthea? I thought the head of the Corday was some old bloke named Garrett!"

Irene shrugs. "I'm an intelligencer first, an assassin second. First thing I did was find out who was in charge." And who did she have to sleep with to get that information? Molly doesn't ask. "Anthea's an old friend, and the "insane old man" is a good cover story for when her orders didn't make sense. D'you know, she initially made the rule about all supplicants coming with dead bodies as a way to find corpses for the flight Mycroft was going to blow up?"

Molly files this information away for future use. "Is Harry going to tell John...?"

Irene grins. "She just did. John just about had a fit when he discovered that his wife _and_ sister belong to the same assassins' syndicate."

Molly suddenly realizes that Sherlock is being remarkably quiet. She looks up, and almost doesn't believe the look on his face. Sherlock is _shy?_ After a moment of reflection, though, Molly realizes that Sherlock being shy is no stranger than Irene being lonely or Felix being merciful. Irene discreetly exits.

Mary, possibly noticing Molly and Sherlock standing awkwardly, whispers something to John. He nods and turns on the speakers, allowing a traditional Christmas waltz to fill the room. Mary hands little Camira to Mrs. Hudson, who's just come in, and begins to dance with her husband. A moment later, Irene and Harry join them, then Anderson and his girlfriend, then Donovan and Lestrade. Anthea even manages to drag Mycroft, who looks supremely uncomfortable, onto the dance floor.

Molly sets down her drink and steels her nerve. "Mr. Holmes, may I have this dance?"

She looks up just in time to see a smile break across his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand end of Part One.
> 
> Camira, by the way, means "of the wind..." ;)


	15. 25 December 2015

Later that evening, after three giddy dances, Irene pulls Molly off the dance floor. "We need to talk." 

Molly listens to Irene's whispered confidence in astonishment tinged with horror; talk about turning a party on its head.  "You need to tell the others," she says the moment Irene pauses for breath.

"I can't!" Irene exclaims. "It's not my secret to tell! They specifically gave me permission to tell you, after I promised you were trustworthy." 

But Molly knows this is too big to keep quiet. Hooking her arm around Irene's, she drags the dominatrix over to where Anthea and Mycroft stand in the corner. They don't look particularly pleased to see her, but she refuses to let their coldness dissuade her. The four of them argue in whispers for half an hour, as Molly systematically demonstrates that exposing their little secret is not only wise, but also necessary. Finally, Anthea surrenders. Mycroft gives her a look askance but does not object; instead, he offers her his hand. She smiles, squeezes it, and pulls him to the center of the room. 

The buzz of holiday cheer quiets slowly as Molly taps the side of a champagne glass. Everyone turns to her expectantly, and then toward Anthea as Molly nods in the couple's direction. "Ahem," Anthea coughs, unusually ill at ease for a woman normally so self-contained. The Watsons glance at one another, not sure what's coming. "Mycroft and I have an announcement to make."

"Oh, don't tell me my own brother has jumped on the dating bandwagon," Sherlock drawls as he strolls up next to Molly. She glares at him, and he shuts up. 

Anthea throws Sherlock a dirty look, but before she can come up with a scathing response, Mycroft intervenes. "Actually, it's a bit more extreme than that. Anthea and I will be celebrating our fifth anniversary this March." Reaching under his shirt collar, he draws out a silver chain with a gold band on it. Anthea produces a similar ring from the sleeve of her dress.

For a moment, the only sound that can be heard from the stunned audience is the happy gurgling of baby Camira. Finally, Felix snorts. "Well, this should make the merging of the Corday and MI5 much more interesting." 

This wry observation breaks the tension, causing everyone to start talking at once. Harry and Mary are exclaiming at each other, John is saying with dawning comprehension, "So that's why she turned me down," Anderson is telling his girlfriend that he had hypothesized Anthea's relationship with Mycroft in one of his Empty Hearse theories, Donovan and Mrs. Hudson are congratulating Anthea, Lestrade is declaring that he never would have guessed it, and Sherlock is standing stock-still as though someone just hit him in the face with a wooden board. Molly reaches over and grabs his hand, trying to comfort him, but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice. The word "catatonic" flashes through Molly's mind; she pushes it away. 

After a couple of minutes of chaos, Anthea grabs a crystal decanter and starts banging on it with a fork. The noise drops again. "Look, I know this was unexpected," she says, sounding slightly frazzled, "but there are a few things you should know about us before you jump to conclusions. Mycroft and I are married only in name; I live in a different house, and he treats me like an assistant, not a girlfriend."

Mycroft takes up the dialogue smoothly. "Five and a half years ago, Anthea turned up on my doorstep in the middle of the afternoon, holding a bloody human leg. She told me that the leg belonged to the serial killer who had been terrorizing East London, and that she had brought it as her credentials. A little checking verified her claim. As you can imagine, I was intrigued. I tested her thoroughly, since normally beautiful young women who show up on a powerful man's doorstep shouldn't be trusted, present company not at all excepted." Irene gives him an ironic curtsy. "Anthea proved to be useful, clever, and loyal, so I kept her on. She only asked that I pay for her room and board, and that I never ask about her past. I investigated, of course, but my spies couldn't figure out her history. Eventually, once she came to trust me, she admitted her heritage and why she was determined to leave it behind."

Anthea slips back into the story; for a couple who profess their marriage to be merely one of convenience, they're rather accustomed to working as a team. "My mother was a British aristocrat; she committed suicide when I was five." A humorless smile hooks the corner of her mouth. "She drove our car off a cliff, but my carseat protected me. I was sent to my father when the police found the wreckage. I ran away from home at age seventeen, joined a gang, knocked about for a while. I joined the Corday at twenty, and Garrett made me his protégé within a year. Five years later I decided to go work with Mike as well. Here I am."

Anderson's girlfriend sniffles, apparently moved by Anthea's terrible childhood, but the rest of the room is silent. Sherlock's expression is still locked in place; Molly wonders how long it will take him to fully process that he had been completely oblivious to Mycroft's marital status for five whole years. 

This time, Harry is the first to speak. "Boss, that's plenty tragic, but why do I get the feeling you're not finished?"

Anthea's usual enigmatic smile flashes across her face. "I wanted to get married because I wanted to change my name without attaching myself to some needy, gross man. Mycroft was the perfect choice. He, naturally, wanted the connection to my famous father; back then, it wasn't clear how rampant Daddy's ambition really was. Mike hoped the man could be wielded as a weapon in the defense of Lady Britain." She takes a deep breath. "Keep in mind, the only reason that you are hearing this is that Mike and I are absolutely confident in the trustworthiness of every one of you. My real name is Lady Andrea Holmes, née Magnussen."

~

Later that night, as Mary tucks Camira into her crib, John remarks, "You know, the first time Sherlock mentioned Magnussen to Mycroft, Mycroft told him to leave well enough alone, that Magnussen was 'under his protection'."

Mary shudders. "To think, that must be how Magnussen learned about my connection to the Corday. Poor Andrea!"

"Anthea," John reminds her, "she asked us to keep calling her Anthea."

~

Just before dawn, Molly carefully leads a still-catatonic Sherlock into his bedroom and tucks him in, fully dressed. For hours, she's tried to rouse him, but neither hot tea nor a slap in the face seems to register. 

Exiting the flat, she passes Mrs. Hudson napping in Sherlock's armchair, a single rivulet of drool creeping down her crinkled face. Molly dimples, full of fondness for the fine old woman, but most of her mind is taken up worrying that Anthea didn't reveal her most dangerous secret. 

~

Three nights later, a hooded figure purchases a cheap cell phone from a grimy corner store in a nameless, shadowy alley in the bowels of London. The figure's silhouette stretches faint against the dirty walls of an abandoned parking garage an hour later, as they mutter swiftly into the phone, glancing about nervously. 

Once they finish describing the revelation at the party at 221B, there's a pause at the other end of the line, and then the laugh of a person whose true identity would shake the visitors of 221B to the core echoes from the phone speaker. "Well done. Keep me informed." The figure hangs up the phone, tosses it and the nylon gloves they're wearing into a nearby trash bin, and shuffles away. 


	16. 1 January 2016

A woman and her husband sit in their living room at 4:00 AM on New Year's Day. He wears a velvet red monogrammed dressing gown, she a lush purple robe. A fire roars in the fireplace, snow flutters past the window, and a black kitten purrs in her lap. She is in her early thirties and beautiful, the kind of woman you'd dream of meeting at a cocktail party; he is in his late forties and stately, the kind of man you'd feel comfortable voting for. 

There is a polite knock at the door, and a properly expressionless manservant enters with a bow, bearing a platter with steaming mugs of hot chocolate, specially imported from Belgium. The woman smiles and accepts the platter, gesturing for the butler to exit. Placing the silver plate delicately on a mahogany coffee table, he does, and an imperceptible tension leaves the dignified man's shoulders. He picks up his mug eagerly, and for a moment just holds it contentedly between his large palms, while his wife pets her cat and smiles at him. Together, they are the very picture of aristocratic British respectability. 

Then the woman pulls a vial from her pocket and taps two off-white pills onto her hand, dropping one into each ceramic vessel. Her husband sighs and makes a face. "Really, my dear. Poison does ruin the flavor."   
  
Anthea smiles sweetly at her husband and employer. "I'd rather you had bitter drinks for a few nights to build up an immunity than die of oleander poisoning."  Mycroft grimaces and dumps half the sugar bowl into his cup. Anthea watches but doesn't object, apparently deciding that diabetes is preferable to assassination.    
  
The couple sit quietly for a moment, while Harold Shipman (named after one of Britain's most infamous serial killers) purrs with satisfaction. Anthea's phone dings, and she pulls it out with a sigh. "It's that Hooper girl again. Ever since she and Irene made nice she thinks she can order everybody around."    
  
She hands the cell to her husband, who reads it aloud with a vague look of distaste. "'They have a right to know. Better that you tell them that they find out on their own. MH.' It appears my brother's pet believes she rules the world now that he's danced with her. Silly of him to make such an elementary mistake."   
  
"You danced with me," Anthea reminds him archly, "although you may just have been in shock that I lead the assassins' cell you've been hunting for years." She laughs airily. "Fancy that."   
  
"And I suppose you've been using your position on my staff to gain information about when we were going to ambush your people," Mycroft sighs delicately. "Well done, hiding that for six years."   
  
Anthea gives him her best enigmatic smile. "I try. You know, now that our relationship isn't a secret anymore, we can start living like a normal couple. Same bedroom, social functions, guests over for dinner..." She manages to hold a straight face for about thirty seconds before bursting out laughing at the utter horror scrawled across Mycroft's face. "Got you again. You can't deduce me, husband dear."    
  
Mycroft smiles politely, expertly hiding how much it bothers (intrigues? no,  _ bothers _ ) him that Anthea remains a mystery. Three years ago, a sarcastic agent had told him that if he and Anthea ever got around to getting married, they'd have the most tight-lipped children on the planet. "As long as you're the only one, my dear. I assume you have no intention of going public?"   
  
Anthea grimaces. "You know as well as I do how people would react." Harold Shipman meows in objection to her having stopped petting him. With an apologetic smile, she gets back to work. "Not so tight-lipped after all, are you, baby," she coos to the kitten, and Mycroft internally winces at her ability to guess his thoughts. Six years ago, she hadn't been able to tell what he was thinking any more than he could her, but now...   
  
"How are you planning to keep Miss Hooper quiet?" he asks, changing the subject. "I fear for my brother's emotional stability if he finds a permanent dancing partner."   
  
"Oh, I'll figure something out," Anthea murmurs. The two sit quietly after that, sipping their hot chocolate, as snow kisses the windows and flames flicker red-orange behind the cast-iron grate.


	17. 4 January 2016

Molly goes to work at 7:30 on the first Monday morning of the New Year. She'd been surprised, when she first got out of the hospital, at how easily she'd fall back into her old routine. Besides having tea with Irene on Tuesdays and Saturdays, nothing has really changed.

That's what she thinks until she walks into the morgue. She freezes, one hand on the doorframe, and stares.

It's something out of a horror movie. The room is packed. Corpses are crammed on every possible surface, some squished up against each other, some precariously stacked. Molly is the last person to be bothered by dead people, but this is bizarre.

She finds a note scribbled on a Post-It on her desk, which reads, "Molly – I don't know why, but a couple night ago corpses started turning up on our front step. The police are looking into it. In the meantime, we've hired a temporary assistant for you – yes, an assistant, you're welcome – to help deal with the influx. Her name is Belle Spaulding, and she comes in at 10:00. – Matthew."

Cheered by the prospect of an assistant, concerned at the influx of dead bodies, Molly gets to work, setting aside a couple of the more interesting ones for Sherlock to look at later if he's not still lying in bed in shock. She hopes not - the party was three days ago.

Two and a half hours of stiff limbs and clouded eyes later, Molly hears the door open behind her. Since she's currently trying to juggle a clipboard, a pen, two highlighters, and a flaccid leg, Molly doesn't turn to greet her new assistant. "Just a mo', Miss Spaulding."

Footsteps approach behind her, and a hand reaches over her shoulder to help Molly steady the leg. Carefully writing down observations on her clipboard before she forgets them, Molly absently notes that Miss Spaulding is wearing gloves, a sign that she knows what she's doing. Good.

Then Molly glances up, and it's a good thing that her new assistant is holding the leg, because everything else crashes to the floor. Irene Adler, dressed in a lab coat, grins at her. "Did you miss me?"

"Irene! What – what are you doing here?" Pleasure and relief that Irene isn't already in some bloke's bed clash with worry. What's the new assassin doing in her morgue?

Placing the leg on a nearby table, Irene explains, "Garrett hired me to gather information for him, but that hardly pays the bills. I decided to get a job." She gives Molly an ironic look. "I assume you don't mind, given all the…" She waves her hand vaguely at the piles of corpses.

Molly goes cold. "Are these all – what do you call them, tubbers?" "Tubbers" is the Corday term for the victim of an assassination.

Irene grimaces. "A few. Garrett decided that he'd prefer to have someone competent analyze them. In other words, you."

"But this is horrific! How many people do you _kill_?"

" _I_ don't kill people. Most of these aren't even victims, just murders that Garrett wanted looked into. Who better than his brother-in-law and his brother-in-law's girlfriend."

Molly, even shocked as she is by the carnage, can't help but blush. "I'm not- We're not-" Irene glares at her, clearly both amused and disbelieving. Molly casts about for a way to change the subject. "Look, Irene, why choose here? You could take almost any job you wanted."

Toying with a scalpel, the semi-retired dominatrix shrugs elegantly. "I can help the Corday here, but I won't be doing the same job as Harry. They say you shouldn't date your coworkers, as I think you proved quite nicely with ol' Jim." She puts down the scalpel and starts gathering the paperwork strewn across the floor. "You're my friend, and this is a nice, quiet job that keeps me from killing people." She shudders slightly. "Killing is such a…primitive way of dealing with opponents." She unzips a body bag and starts recording the mortal remains of a young man, his face eerily flattened from a car crash. "Besides, it'll be fun!"

The expression on her face, half predatorial, half mischievous, makes Molly's stomach flip. "Irene, you can't play your games with the people here. Sarah, Xuemei, Matthew, Srirang – they're all nice, normal people." A sudden, terrifying image of Srirang challenging Sarah to a duel over Irene makes her gulp.

Irene stares at Molly in utter disbelief. "Nice people? You honestly think that? Matthew's thumbs indicate he has two girlfriends and an addiction to marijuana, Jane has the left foot of a smuggler-"

Molly holds up a hand before her friend can reveal the dark secrets of everyone in the building. Something doesn't sit right - Irene sounds too casual, too practiced. Molly's eyes narrow. "Tell me the whole truth. Why are you here?"

Zipping up the body bag, Irene doesn't meet Molly's gaze. "You remember what I told you at the party. Anthea needs our help. If Moriarty's people find out about her third secret, they'll have compromised Anthea, Mycroft, Sherlock, and the rest of England."

Well, in that case. Naturally Irene remembers to mention her romantic reasons for choosing a job but fails to mention that the entire bloody _country_ is at stake. Pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger, Molly asks, "What do we need to do?"

"For now, we need to get through these corpses. We can talk about that particular scandal over dinner."

Seeing the wisdom in this, Molly gets to work as well.


	18. 4 January 2016

Thirty-odd stiffs later, Molly's writing hand is cramping. All she wants is a few minutes alone, ideally without any hollow eyes boring into her back. Normally the corpses don't bother her, but knowing the people who put them there makes the entire process more personal and gruesome. Irene takes up a running commentary about an hour in, perhaps sensing Molly's irrational guilt. "This man was a human trafficker and two-time murderer…This woman smothered her infant children to death every time she gave birth…This person has nothing to do with us…This man was planning to bomb the nearby mosque…This woman has nothing to do with us…"

The crimes are all horrible, but Molly doesn't – can't – believe that any of these people deserved to die. Go to prison for a long time maybe, but not die. When she comes upon the small, sad body of a little boy – "nothing to do with us" – Molly can't stand it any more.

"Irene, we can do the rest of these after lunch. Let's go." She strips off her gloves and dumps the papers on her desk. Irene doesn't comment, merely shrugging off her lab coat and hanging it on the back of a chair. Molly suppresses the urge to roll her eyes at the extremely tight dress Irene is wearing underneath. Some things never change.

At the washed-out diner down the road, Molly orders a turkey sandwich and crisps. Irene orders kippers and a chocolate milkshake, grinning at the horror on Molly's face when she drenches the former with the latter. Molly suspects the answer, but she can't help asking, "Are you pregnant or something?"

Irene accidentally inhales a piece of chocolate fish in surprise and spends the next two minutes coughing and spluttering, while Molly tries very hard not to laugh. When she's finally capable of speaking again, she gasps, "Excuse me?"

Molly, feeling her face slowly getting redder, tells her haltingly, "The day we met at the restaurant – before you came in – Mary mixed her Cornish pasty with ice cream – blamed it on-"

"Her pregnancy, of course," Irene groans, glowering as Molly finally bursts into peals of laughter. "The answer, of course, is absolutely and unequivocally _no_. Not really my area. While we're on the topic, though, were you able to get through to Garrett?"

Molly shakes her head, sobering. She wonders if Anthea is watching them even now with the store's cameras, making sure that they don't slip and call her by her real name. "I tried texting her, but she didn't answer. But you already knew that, didn't you."

Irene gestures dismissively. "I can usually tell, but it's good form to ask. Can I see exactly what you said?" Molly hands over her cell. Irene types in the passcode – of course she'd be able to guess the passcode, yeesh, why does Molly even try – and reads through the messages. "Straight to the point, that's good. Garrett hasn't replied at all?"

Molly says nothing, knowing Irene has already guessed what she believes – that the sudden pile of bodies on her doorstep at work is an answer. Instead, she asks, "Do you have any idea where it is now?"

Irene grimaces. "Not at Number Ten, that's for sure. It would have attracted attention by now." By mutual tacit consent, they don't mention what "it" is.

"Might her – sorry, his – father have had it? Maybe that's what was really hidden at Appledore."

Irene concedes the possibility with a tilt of her head. "Would Garrett really have left it in Magnussen's tender care? I mean, he's no softie, but that's cold even for him."

"Would she – he! – have had a choice? Actually, Irene, I'm just going to call Garrett a she. I'm going to anyway, and at least this way eavesdroppers won't hear me correcting myself. But really, with her father's power, could she have refused if he asked?"

"The ultimate bargaining chip," Irene muses, "the key to utter control of the government. Garrett would have plenty of stories from growing up in his house that could cause damage if bandied around, and whether or not he recognizes it, Garrett is his husband's weakest link, even more so than Sherlock." She laughs humorlessly. "Jim was wrong. Mycroft is no longer the Iceman."

"But what are we going to do about it?" Molly demands. "All of Britain is at stake here!"

Irene nibbles a kipper, unconcerned. "It's been at stake before. One time from me." She sighs, vexed. "I was so close to convincing Mycroft to hand over the national treasury!"

Molly really, really hopes she's kidding. "I'm not that gullible, you know. It's one o'clock. We should go."

Irene springs from her seat, lithe as a jungle cat. "I'll bet you a tenner that I can get Jane, Lora, and Kyle to all ask me out for dinner by four o'clock." She dances out the door.

"Ireeeene…" Molly moans, following her friend.

It takes a while, but eventually Molly falls back into her rhythm of inspecting, cataloging, and covering the bodies. She and Irene work well together, probably the result of being held in the same cell for ages. Sometimes Molly finds herself wishing that her new assistant had a little more respect for the recently deceased - "this bastard killed twenty people through his medical practice, good riddance" - but mostly she's just glad Irene chose not to be an active player in the assassins' game.

An hour after lunch, Irene cocks her head sideways, listening, and grins. She mouths, "Watch," and turns her eyes toward the corpse she's working on, the very picture of diligence.

Three seconds later, there's a knock at the door, and Jay walks in. "Hey, Molly," he calls, "I have the forms you asked for."

"I'll take them!" Irene says, a little too eagerly. Jay looks at her in mild surprise, and then in interest. "You're new."

"I'm Belle," Irene lies, sounding flustered. "You must be Jay.  Miss Hooper has been telling me all about you."

No, Molly thinks, I haven't. I hardly know who he is. And he certainly doesn't deserve your attention.

"Really?" says Jay, completely taken in. He smiles slyly. "Like what?"

"All good things," Irene assures him through her lashes. Simpering, she takes the papers from his hands, pausing slightly longer than she ought to.

He gets the hint. A blind elephant on the moon would have gotten the hint. "So, Belle, are you doing anything tonight?"

Irene hems and haws prettily. "Yes, she is," Molly blurts out, glowering at her evil friend. "We have to catalogue the rest of these bodies before they go bad." Irene pouts ridiculously, and makes a show of going back to work. Jay sighs and leaves. 

The moment the door clicks shut, Irene's face morphs back to its usual expression, losing some ineffable quality of innocent flirtation. "One down, two to go," she gloats. "You are going to owe me money."

"Irene." Molly, clenching her hands, resists the urge to bang her head against the wall. "That's not nice. That poor guy-"

"Is married, and flirting with women at work, and only getting what he deserves," Irene inserts smoothly.

Now that Molly thinks about it, Irene is right - that man had a ring on his finger. Her sympathy for him diminishes dramatically, but she still doesn't like it. "What about Harry, though?" she points out. "Won't she be upset that you're flirting with strangers?"

Irene rolls her eyes intensely, conveying utter disdain at the idiocy of the question. "Harry and I don't have a relationship like _that_. I'm not the only one she's dating. She expects me to exercise the same freedom." 

"You're not the only- never mind, I don't want to know." Maybe that's just Irene's way, but it bothers Molly. She tries to imagine how she'd feel if she discovered that Sherlock was still keeping up with - what was her name? Janine? She'd be crushed, to say the - 

"Omigod," Molly murmurs, her eyes going wide. "Janine. Irene, that's it, isn't it? Anthea wouldn't leave it with her father, but she might leave it with her childhood friend, whose family worked for her father. She'd leave it with Janine."

Irene stares at her, suddenly putting it together as well. "That's it! Janine wasn't really a secretary. She was its caretaker. How do you think she got a month off to spend time with Sherlock, though?"

Molly grimaces. "Magnussen must have known that it was Sherlock she was staying with. He probably saw their relationship as a tactical advantage. And Irene, we can't just keep calling it an "it." That's too dehumanizing. I'm not saying we have to call it An- sorry, Garrett's child every time, but surely we owe the poor kid the courtesy of referring to it as 'the baby' or 'the child'."

Irene frowns but nods. She's swept the room twice for surveillance devices, so she's relatively sure that no one can hear them.   
  
~

John Brown is a beggar, one of those street rats that blend in with the scenery, the kind of man that middle class conservative families claim are a drain on Britain's resources. When he dies of exposure, no one mourns him. The police pick him up and take him to the local hospital for processing. Neither the police nor the hospital workers particularly notice him either, which is why the microphone that a shadowy figure hid in his ear shortly after he died goes undetected.

Even deceased, Brown is still detrimental to the stability of the British government.

~

The man on the receiving end of the microphone waits until Adler and Hooper stop talking. Then, very slowly, he reads over the transcript he's made of their conversation, even replaying the recording of Hooper's fatal realization. A delighted smile spreads across his face, and he murmurs, "Loose lips sink ships. Well deduced, Miss Hooper." 

He spins once in his desk chair for the hell of it, before snatching up his mobile and pressing down the 2 to speed-dial his boss. There's a click, and a cool voice emanates from the phone. "Report."

"Rob, I've got something that will make you very happy." Microphone Man rewinds the recording by a few seconds and presses play, listening as Hooper's words echo through the room. 

The voice on the other end of the line starts to laugh.


	19. 23 January 2016

Molly worries about the child for the following fortnight, but it's a passive concern. After all, Anthea has hidden the kid's existence for the past six years; it's not like something's going to happen overnight.

At least, that's what she thinks until she finds Sherlock's phone.

They've gone out on two semi-dates since Christmas, Molly having finally found the courage to ask him out. The first time is to a dance club, which he clearly enjoys, and the second time is to lunch, which they spend discussing bodies' decomposition. It's a start, she supposes, but she really would prefer if _he_ asked _her_ out for once. She understands that he's invested in his latest case, something about a boy band with bad skin, but still.

This is why, when Sherlock dashes off to grab a boiling head, Molly finds hacking his abandoned phone really hard to resist. He's already broken into hers twice in her presence - lord knows how many times without her knowledge - so it would only be fair, right? Irene showed her how last week. But no, she knows better, and she's about to go back to work when the phone dings, displaying a text from - Janine. The message blurb under her name starts, "Look, Sher, I know I said I hated you, but...".

Good god, that woman couldn't have come up with a more suggestive beginning if she'd tried. Still, Molly tells herself, she has no right to get possessive, it's not like they're actually dating or anything. Irene's words echo in her head - "Harry and I don't have a relationship like _that_."

Irene comes in five minutes later to find her still staring at the phone, debating, knowing she won't but wishing she could. "What's wrong?" Irene asks immediately.

"Janine - it's stupid, but I think she and Sherlock still - there was a text-"

Irene wastes no time agonizing over morality; she picks up the phone and punches in the passcode. She doesn't even pause to inspect the screen the way she taught Molly (something about smeared points and statistical probabilities). In four deft movements, she navigates from the home screen to the texting app and clicks on Janine's name. Not bothering to look at it, she holds the phone out for Molly's inspection.

"Irene!" Molly is half horrified, half astonished. "How...how do you know Sherlock's password?"

Irene gives her a look. "He guessed mine, I can guess his. Do you want to read it or not?"

"No!" No, honestly, not like this. "I can't just-"

"Yes, you can. Or I can." Irene pulls back the phone, scrolls to the top of the (quite long) message, and starts reading aloud. "Look, Sher, I know I said I hated you, but right now I need your help. I'm being stalked - I'm certain of it now. Not by some spurned lover, never fear, sweetheart; I don't know the man (men?) following me around. I think one of them broke into my house a couple days ago - I came back and the mark I had left in the doorframe had been disturbed. Honestly, I'm scared, Sher. Magnussen had secrets, big secrets. Just ask your brother, I was a mild-mannered secretary with no access to the deep stuff. I don't know what I want from you-" here Irene pauses, as if editing something out - "but please, please help me. Hugs-" another pause - "Janine."

The two stand in silence for a few seconds. Molly knows Irene picked up on it too, that Janine suggested Sherlock contact his brother about secrets she might be holding. There's only one answer she can come up with. "They know." Irene doesn't say anything, just licks her lips absentmindedly. "They must have found out. But why now? That can't be a coincidence, can it?"

Irene sighs. "Probably not." She's wearing a frozen, cornered expression, the same as she'd had when Madame's goons had thrown Molly back into their cell, disarmed, after their failed escape attempt the first night.

"Was it us?" Molly asks, afraid she already knows the answer. Irene stares off into the distance, not responding, which is conformation enough. God, what have they done?

Irene suddenly jumps, startled, before closing out of the app and replacing the phone where she found it. Just as she picks up a discarded finger, the door opens and Sherlock walks in, carrying - heavens, had that been a head? The cooked flesh falls off the skull in places, reminding Molly sickeningly of corned beef.

"Don't mind me, Molly, I'm just studying the relative decomposition of boiled and burned brains," he announces as he starts to set the head on a random stack of paperwork. Quickly, Irene snatches the forms out of the way, her position behind him preventing him from seeing her face. Sherlock continues, unperturbed, "How many more heads could I have by next week? Five would obviously be better, but if you get me four I could use the spare I'm keeping in my fridge."

Molly smiles forcedly, not really attending. What would he think if he knew she might have revealed his brother's biggest secret? "We'll see. We should be able to manage three, at least. We've been getting an unusual number of corpses lately."

Sherlock appears to have tuned out after "three," but Molly doesn't mind as much as she ought. Inattentive is better than condescending and manipulative. He leaves a minute later, after selecting a liver from the pile she's prepared.

"Why do you do that?" Irene asks after he's gone.

"Do what?"

"Shrink. Go quiet. Start referring to yourself as 'we' as if you're afraid to call attention to yourself."

Molly blushes. "I wasn't-"

"Yes, you were. You always do. Whenever he's around. Have some pride, Molly Hooper, he's not some kind of god." Irene sounds almost angry.

Filing that argument away for another day, Molly changes the subject. "What are we going to do?"

Irene exhales slowly through her nose. "First, we're going to report to Garrett and hope he doesn't kill us. Then, we're going to pay Miss Janine a visit."

~

"You want me to do what?" Harry exclaims a day later, pulling back, her full lips pressing together.

Felix, sitting ramrod straight on the other side of the table at the shadowy pub, stares at her impassively. "I want you to follow them as they investigate Hawkins. Garrett isn't happy that his newest recruit proved so loose-lipped. For some reason, he's giving her a second chance, but if they prove too great a security risk, we want you to...deal with it."

Harry leans across the table, narrowing her eyes, a thunderstorm brewing. "You realize you're asking me to terminate Irene. Irene is my girlfriend."

Felix tilts his head sideways, but there's nothing whimsical about his expression. "That's never stopped you before."

Slowly, Harry sits back, her fury retreating. A smile spreads like molasses across her face, and she purrs, "Fair enough. You can count on me."

~

Three days later, Mary goes out to check the mail. She's tired. Camira had screamed all night and still won't sleep, and her mother certainly isn't going to leave her side for anything. John will be heading to 221B in a few minutes, so this is Mary's last time to snatch a few seconds alone. She's not even self conscious about going outside in her bathrobe.  The mailbox contains a few ads, a bank receipt, a postcard from David in the Bahamas (poor thing, he never really did get over her), and a padded envelope. 

Mary carries everything inside and throws it across the kitchen table. Thank God for Saturdays. John gives her a kiss on the cheek on his way out, and Camira gurgles in disgruntlement. With a sigh, Mary splashes soy milk in a bowl and dumps a sugary, processed cereal on top of it. As she crunches quickly through her breakfast - the baby could start howling again any minute - she notices that the yellow envelope doesn't have a return address. Vaguely bemused, she picks it up- and nearly spews cereal all over the bank receipt. 

The lion's foot stamp is unmistakable - but they know she's not an active agent anymore! Everyone in the bloody syndicate knows. Felix certainly made a big enough deal out of it when she left, and her brother- but that she refuses to think about. Yet there the envelope lies, staring at her, containing - what, orders? A termination report? A birthday card? Felix always did have a strange sense of humor; it would be like him to send her a card several months early just to freak her out. 

Her hands trembling slightly - dammit, she hates the Corday, hates that she can't leave them behind, can't move on, can't even  _ move _ without constantly checking over her shoulder - Mary rips open the thick yellow paper. Nested inside, swathed in bubble wrap, are a video cassette and a folded slip of paper. Slowly, Mary opens the note. Her first reaction is confusion at the meaning of the message; her second reaction is shock at the handwriting, a slashing dark script she knows well but had expected - hoped - she'd never see again. She can too easily imagine the writer angrily scrawling down the three words on the paper: "Now we're even."

When John walks into the kitchen that afternoon, having chosen to refrain from watching Sherlock's latest experiment, he finds Camira snoozing in her booster seat, macaroni and cheese heating on the stove, the phone book open to professional babysitters, a cassette player out on the table, and a pile of luggage blocking his way to the bedroom. "Mary?" he calls uncertainly. "Are you - going somewhere?"


	20. 20 January 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set a few days before Mary receives the letter, hence the backwards jump in time.

Molly's boss, Matthew, isn't happy when she announces that she needs more time off. He's been hearing rumors about his newest recruit, Miss Spaulding, and the impressive number of people she's been flirting with. Matthew doesn't want Molly falling under the woman's spell as well.

When he approaches her about it, though, she laughs him off, a bit grimly but entirely sincere: "Believe me, we're really just friends. Really. I'm fine, honestly, I just need a few days to myself. My leg has been hurting again-" and here she winces and falls against the table, apparently unable to hold herself up. Matthew rushes to her aid, agreeing wholeheartedly that she should take time off, that it's not a problem. He doesn't see the guilty look she sends him as he leaves; he doesn't see her straighten and walk across the room moments later.

When Irene comes back from delivering a pile of spleens, Molly is categorizing corpses with a vengeance. "This is disgusting," she mutters, her back to the door, "I'm turning into you, all lies and insincerity."

There's a pause. When Irene speaks, her voice betrays no emotion. "You got the time off?"

"Yes, I did, by lying and faking. I hate this." Molly knows it's unfair, but she's angry at herself and Irene is someone to complain at.

"Good," the dominatrix says, before spinning on her heel and marching back out the door. Molly works alone for the rest of the day.

They're silent on the bus ride to the Cotswolds, where Janine lives, the following day. Molly regrets her unkindness by now, but when she says she's sorry, Irene brushes her off coolly. "Don't apologize. For the next few days, we'll have to trust each other. I'd rather you say honestly what you think, not just what you want to think."

They spend the rest of the ride speaking about espionage and how to hide your true feelings, but there's a distance about it that wasn't there before.

Molly and Irene take a room at inn in Chipping Campden. They know Janine owns a shop somewhere in the area.

Irene, leaning across the desk a little farther than she ought, explains that she and her cousin are artists here to sketch the striking hillsides and sheep. Molly fervently hopes that Irene can draw, in case the man asks to see their work later on.

The two women ascend the cramped staircase to their room, only for Molly to discover a problem - their two-bed suite is designed for families with children. Stiffening her resolve, she announces, "I can take the bunk bed."

"No, you won't," Irene informs her calmly. "I will take the bottom bunk of the bunk bed and place all of my weaponry in the slats of the frame overhead. You will take the regular bed." Before Molly can argue, Irene lugs her suitcase into the room with the bunk bed, thunks it down, and starts unpacking. She does in fact have a variety of art supplies, as well as a few tools of a more obscure nature.

It's still early afternoon, so after selecting a few credible sketching implements (Molly discovers that her pen produces a blade if twisted properly), the pair set out. At the local grocery store, they buy day-old marked-down bread, which is still quite good. Irene chats up the heavyset woman behind the counter while Molly peruses the trashy magazines for sale, pausing at the celebrity rag with a blurb about how Sherlock and John have been voted "England's cutest couple." Molly can't help rolling her eyes - Sherlock's friendship with John is just as platonic as hers and Irene's.

In silence, they hike up the long path to the hilltop, crunching through the thin layer of snow and pressing their hands under their arms for warmth. Molly is glad she insisted they bundle up, despite Irene's objection that heavy jackets are a liability during a fight. Under a few bare trees, groups of sheep huddle together for warmth, lying on the last grass uncovered by frost. At the top of the hill, Irene and Molly stare out across the white expanse, with snowy hills as far as the eye can see under a cloudy sky. After a few moments of silent awe, Irene says crisply, "We should get to work."

"Work?" Molly asks, unsure what espionage they can do from up here. "Can you trace Janine's texts more easily from here or something?"

Irene grins. "No, but I can paint the scenery so that our backstory will be more credible. Go stand against that fence."

"Why?" Now Molly's really confused.

"So that I can sketch you, silly. What's a winter forest without a little fox in the background?" Irene waves at her teasingly.

Recognizing this as a peace offering, Molly dutifully goes to stand against the wooden fence. "Should I pose?"

"No, just stay there. Try to figure out what we could say to Janine to convince her that the child is in danger."

"Remind me why Mycroft is not rescuing the child himself, when he and Garrett have a much greater ability to protect these people than we do?" This has been bothering Molly since they got on the bus. It doesn't make sense.

"Mycroft is afraid to connect himself with the child in any way. It would create too great a scandal, and he can't risk getting kicked out of office with Moriarty's organization again on the rise. Garrett is trying to protect Mycroft and keep quiet the fact that they have a child, since the less scrupulous members of the Corday might try to use the fact against them. First rule: never trust an assassin, even if they're on your side. Even Felix thinks I was indiscreet about Garrett's marriage to Mycroft. He doesn't know about the child."

Molly processes this. "So why did Garrett tell us?"

Irene smiles ironically, looking only at the easel she's setting up. "Garrett and I have known each other for a while. We have...history. At one point I trusted him more than anyone in the world." Her eyes flick in Molly's direction as she says this, assessing Molly's reaction. "He trusts you because I trust you."

They're quiet for about an hour afterward, as Molly daydreams and Irene paints. Finally Irene breaks the snow-induced silence, saying, "Molly, I've got you. It's your turn."

"Mine?" Molly squeaks. "I majored in chemistry, not art."

"Which is perfect, because people will see your mediocre attempts and feel sorry for you, making them less likely to ask awkward questions," the intelligencer explains. "Go on." She hands Molly a pencil and sketchbook. "Have fun."

Molly stares at the sketchbook, unsure what to do. At university, she took drawing classes so she'd be able to create accurate diagrams of the bodies she works with. If she wanted, she could reproduce the entire hill reasonably well, but without any emotion. Her drawings are always so stiff - which gives her an idea.

Irene whistles when she sees the sketch a couple hours later. "You underestimate your abilities. This is striking." Molly has split the scene in half diagonally. One side of the hill is in winter, powdered in snow and populated by tourists and families. The other side is in summer, covered with wildflowers, stunning in the bright sun, populated by (anatomically correct) skeletons. The similarities in the poses of the dead and the living suggest that one group could bleed into the other at any moment.

Carefully, the dominatrix packs Molly's drawing and her own painting (which she won't let Molly see) into her knapsack. She's taking an awfully long time about it, Molly thinks idly, staring out across the evening sky - only to be knocked sideways when a snowball hits her in the chest. In astonishment, she turns to find Irene grinning evilly and holding two more projectiles.

Around seven o'clock, the innkeeper hears the door swing open and looks up in time to see two laughing figures stumble inside, cheeks red and noses dripping, both thoroughly dusted in ice crystals. He smiles briefly as they run upstairs. It's always nice to have happy customers.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're enjoying this, please, drop me a line and let me know. I have tons more chapters that I can post whenever, if you want them. :)


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